


A Moment of Delicacy

by lavenderstages



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur and the reader are so stupidly in love with each other, F/M, Mutual Pining, ONLY happy endings in this house!!!, Possible smut in the future?, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 10:30:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19105300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderstages/pseuds/lavenderstages
Summary: Fragile broken things seek those like them, it's a truth that's known but just how broken is he?





	A Moment of Delicacy

“Can you do that for me, dear?” His voice is low and filled with dangerous promises that make your fingers twitch with barely restrained excitement.  
“This isn’t how I usually do this”  
“I know. Think of it as a challenge my dear” He leans closer to you. You feel something move with him, it’s like the fantastical promise of a better life floats about him like a cloud. He smiles at your obvious desperation.  
“Like a game”

The sound of your spoon hitting the bottom of your empty stew bowl sounded like a gunshot going off in your small, empty house. You were suspicious, it was nearly 10 o’clock at night and you were undisturbed in your evening thus far. You had grown accustomed to your nightly visitors, a small but rather prominent gang of fools that terrorised your modest home tucked away in a remote corner of New Hanover. Each night they imposed themselves on your privacy, taunting you from outside your home and offering crude bargains for your safety. Each night you responded to them with the call of your shotgun.  
You started to feel restless. Quickly you picked up your empty dinner plate and left it hastily in the sink of your little kitchen before briskly walking to you front door. Propped up beside the door is your rifle, sturdy and well used in recent weeks. It’s nothing too flashy, you can’t afford to be frivolous these days. It does its job, and that’s good enough for you at least.  
Snatching it up you move to the little hearth area near the front door. You sink into your father’s old armchair and hold the rifle over your lap, the chair has been moved from its usual place by the fire in favour of a view out of the window. From your seat you can see the little lantern that illuminates your front porch, and the one that is hung on a post in the grass away from your home, allowing you to see any incoming visitors.  
You sink deeper into the chair. Its red fabric is worn in places and the stuffing is barely there, but you have neither the heart nor the money to have it fixed. The chair is one of the oldest things in your home, countless memories of your childhood revolve round the chair you’re sitting in.  
You can clearly remember being sat on your fathers lap in this chair. Your godfather sits opposite you, his wife sat beside him on the low sofa as close as can be a picture of soulful fondness and love. They’re laughing at a joke your fathers told, one you can’t remember or were too young understand. You remember feeling for the first time since leaving your mother out east, you finally had a proper family again.  
Your life has changed so much since then. Your godmother, dead for years now and your godfather too busy with his work to visit you, despite your almost monthly letter correspondence. Most drastically is the absence of your father who is buried beneath a modest gravestone in the Blackwater churchyard. Something in you stirs, though it’s been nearly a year since his passing, you still haven’t gotten used to that cold, lonely feeling that came as a result.  
A noise startles you from your thoughts, and as has been the case for a the last few months, your grief is pushed aside in favour of your survival. It sounded like a whoop or wordless call, and echoes around your head in the silence of your home. You grip onto the shotgun tighter and lean forwards to take a look out of the window, nothing. There’s no movement in the darkness, and the lanterns out front don’t show anything different but that doesn’t calm the frantic beating of your heart.  
Another sound comes out of the darkness, closer now, and distinctly human prompting you to jump from the chair and head straight for the door. You press your forehead against the wood of the door, try to quiet your breathing so you can listen out for whoever’s approaching your home, you can hear a low rumbling from somewhere nearby and your nose scrunches instinctively. You didn’t need to be a genius to recognise the sound of horses, five or six of them if their usual numbers are anything to go by.  
The sound of the men carries over the sounds of their horses. Loud, abrasive to the ears and though you can’t make out the words distinctly, you can tell from their tone the men arriving are here to taunt and harass you again. You slide the latch open and reach for your key loop, you untie it from the waist of your skirt, quickly unlock your door and hide the keys in the draw of the side table.  
You can hear the men outside now, probably circling their horses round as they laugh and call to each other. It’s with great displeasure that you note you can actually recognise some of the voices coming from outside, this has gone on for far too long. Turning the door handle you step out onto the porch.  
“Here she is!” A faceless voice calls out from the darkness. You squint subtly to try and make out the speaker as your eyes slowly adjust to the night.  
“Our lady of honour” the same voice finishes, and he’s followed by a chorus of unpleasant laughter. You can see the man now, recognise him even as one of the most regular of the gang to disrupt your evenings. He’s large, a great hulking man with thinning hair and a vile toothy grin. His voice as soft on the ear as gravel on tender skin. You stare him down preparing to begin your usual dance of defiance.  
“Get out of here,” you warn shortly, raising your shotgun slightly to make a point of it. You’re tired, not ready to compromise or handle an argument, but your tone deals the venomous punch it needs to.  
“No need for that sort of language darlin’” A tall, lean looking man calls out “that ain’t no way to treat a potential business partner”  
A few men snicker at that, and you move the barrel of the shotgun to face their general direction in warning. You don’t want to fire, you’re dangerously aware of how much the ammunition costs, but you will if you have to.  
“There isn’t anything ‘potential’ here. I’ve told you my decision and that’s final. Don’t mock my sensibility by suggesting you’re a business man of any sorts, you all are far too dim for that kind of critical thought” You snap.  
“Now that aint polite at all,” The large one warns “we’re offerin’ to take you away. Keep you safe, and this is how you repay us?”  
“Safety? That’s what they call being a whore for crooks like you is it?” You throw back venomously.  
There’s a dangerous silence as the men look at you lowly. The laughing has long stopped, and your finger moves to rest against the trigger cautiously. The large man shuffles on his horse and speaks again.  
“Now I think we’ve been playing this game damn near long enough now-“  
“Yes at least we can agree on that” you interject coldly  
He man stares at you angrily as his slightly skinnier companion nudges his horse forwards. Now in your line of site, his unholstered pistol glistens in the silver moonlight. The barrel winks at you tauntingly as it catches in the light.  
“What I’m tryin’ to make a point of here, is we’re gonna give you one more week to make your decision. You can come over to our camp out in the forest, or we can take you their ourselves” the man nods to the shotgun in your hand, “Now we don’t want to do anything too extreme, we like our camp decorations to look pretty, but we aren’t opposed to using a little force”  
“Get off my property” you snap as your blood runs cold. Lifting the shotgun, you aim towards the men in front of you.  
“We’ll see you in a week or find us up in tall trees if you make your decision sooner” The man says with a satisfied smile, before turning his horse and spurring it onwards. With the thundering of hooves, the men disappear into the darkness leaving you alone on your porch. You listen until the sound of their voices and horses melt away and wait in the silence, breathing deeply and trying to rationalise your thoughts. Some part of you is irrationally scared, you supposed this had been coming for a long time with your constant rejections. Sure, the thought of returning to San Denis or traveling further east had crossed your mind, but now that you were being pushed into a corner, did you even have that option anymore?  
Disappearing back into your house you slammed the door, bolting it shut and locking it tightly. With your heart hammering in your ears you closed the wooden shutters on each of your windows and retreated to your bedroom hastily. You stopped once inside, staring at the bedside table and debating with yourself.  
You had held off on asking for help for so long, but now might be your only chance. Even if the letter didn’t get to him in time, if you left the location of the gang’s den in your letter, your godfather might be able to help get you free. You moved to sit on the edge of your bed, pulling open the bedside draw and fishing out the pile of neatly folded letters. The stack was bound with an off-white ribbon and contained a year’s worth of letters from your godfather that you often read in these times. You took the most recent letter from the stack and unfolded it, you skimmed over the general pleasantries, questions about your life, and wishes for your good health to find the little post-scriptum. An address and an alias to deliver the letter to sits tucked at the bottom as per usual, and you take this letter with you to the dressing table nearby the bed.  
You take your pen and a fresh sheet of paper and lay them out in front of you, chewing at the inside of your mouth as you debate what to write.  
Dear Mr O’Dowd  
I apologize for the somewhat desperate tone this letter has been forced to take. It is with the greatest regret that I must inform you I have lied to you through or correspondences these last few months, I do so hope you can forgive me when I say I have unfortunately not been able to cope alone since my father’s passing.  
A gang known as the O’Driscolls have been passing through these parts and have found pleasure in causing great discomfort to my nightly existence and have made rather apparent that I will join them, whether that is to my agency or not will be decided by the end of this week.  
Since the death of my father I have been unable to return to work and so I have been financially burdened, and have no possible means to leave and start a new life elsewhere, as would be the most obvious solution in these circumstances.  
And so in light of this I must ask that I could join you for the time being, until I can provide for myself again. My past work as a governess has given me skills I’m sure could be beneficial to your travelling workers, and if those fail to be useful, the particular skills I was taught in your company have not left me (I trust you understand what I am referencing to)  
Should this letter not find you in time, you I beg that you come find me by “Tall Trees” not far from the town of Blackwater.  
I urgently await your response,

You hastily sign the letter, folding it up and sealing it properly and leaving it on your bedside table. You undress, ready for bed and lay your clothes out for the next day on the trunk at the foot of the bed and lay the letter on-top of your blouse. Tomorrow morning you will travel to blackwater and send the letter, but for now you have to try and sleep. You leave your shotgun beside your bedroom door just in case, climb into bed and blow the candle out.

 

Hosea paced briskly into camp. his day had been quite uneventful, a ride into Armadillo that had needed to be done had taken up most of the morning, and now he was arriving back to the chaos of a camp ready to move. He could hardly say it was enjoyable.  
In his age, Hosea had come to find that the noise of camp was only tolerable when he was in the best of spirits. Though he loved most of its members dearly, they did know how to get on his nerves quite comfortably.  
Hosea’s tent had always been one of the last to be deconstructed for travel and today was no different, he went straight to the open tent, weaving through the noise of the gang to the outskirts of the camp.  
He removed his hat, placing it unceremoniously on a crate and sitting himself down on his bed. He stretched, and leisurely opened his satchel. It contained herbs, mostly old ones from before they had arrived in the barren wasteland not far from Tumbleweed and between the plants nestled a letter Hosea had picked up earlier that day. He fishes it out and smiles as he unfolds it. He recognises the delicate font that addresses him by a false name and pries the envelope open, settling further into the shade of his tent as he prepares to read.  
He finds himself at a loss once he finishes the letter. The woman who he knew since a young child was very clearly in trouble and urgently so. He had known this woman’s father from years ago, the two men had often worked together on elaborate cons, and in his time away from the gang Hosea had watched as the girl had learnt how to con and pick-pocket better than most. Hosea had been proud of how she operated with the assistance of himself and her father and didn’t doubt for a minute her use within the gang.  
Taking the letter with him, Hosea leaves the cool of his tent into the abrasive heat of the midday sun. He spots Dutch on the opposite edge of the camp, smoking under the shade of the only tree with enough leaved to provide substantial shade and in heavy conversation with Arthur.  
Hosea conceals his distress masterfully, approaching the two men. They’re enjoying a pleasant discussion, he can tell he can tell by the way Dutch’s voice carries over the noise around him. They’re joking about something or other. He almost feels bad for disrupting them.  
“Hosea! Come here, I was just telling Arthur about that funny looking man we saw in town the other day” Dutch raises his cigarette to his lips, smiling around it as he waits for Hosea to comment, and he indulges his old friend, because he always does.  
“Sure was a curious fellow wasn’t he. Can’t say I’ve seen many from high society round these parts before. Had the bowler hat and all”  
“It’s a different world down here” Arthur says through his own cigarette.  
“That it is,” Dutch says with a nod and sweeping gesture with his pointed fist “Far from the west, but this is a necessary interlude to our plans. Of that I am sure”  
Arthur hums a half-hearted agreement and offers Hosea a cigarette. Hosea waves it off and Arthur shrugs as he takes it back.  
“Dutch, I have to part from the gang for a couple days” Hosea says matter-of-factly. He’s found that this is often the best way to get what he needs from Dutch.  
“And what do you mean by that?” He asks, voice dropping. Arthur bristles subtly and Hosea isn’t ignorant to the worried expression that paints his face.  
“I mean only a couple of days,” Hosea assures, but neither of the men seem calmed by that “There’s a person I care very dearly for who is in great trouble. I’m going to collect her, bring her to camp and keep her out of harm’s way until she’s ready to move on.”  
Dutch narrows his eyes, taking in what Hosea has told him with a defensive sort of attitude.  
“You know we can’t take on any more members in the camp, especially if they aren’t bringing anything in” Dutch counters.  
“I know Dutch, but she’s a talented pick-pocket-“  
“All the girls are” Dutch throws back. Hosea straightens himself out as he prepares to make his point heard.  
“She worked as a Governess in San Denis and Blackwater for influential and rich families. She has connections”  
“So she’s the posh sort” Arthur adds  
“Hardly, her family was dirt poor after paying for her education. Her father ran a few cons with me years back. I trusted him, and I trust her,”  
Arthur takes a long drag of his cigarette as Dutch visibly debates the idea in his mind.  
“Blackwater?” Dutch says finally.  
“Yes, she doesn’t live too far from there” Hosea responds  
“We was planning on heading out that way. We could go a little further, see what Blackwater can do for us”  
Arthur looks between Dutch and Hosea silently, and Hosea nods.  
“I’ll write to her then. Tell her to meet us in Blackwater come Thursday” Hosea says, satisfied he’s done his part.  
“Make no promises. I want to meet her first, can’t just be taking any old fool into our ranks”  
Hosea pauses for a moment and thinks. He trusts Dutch, always has done and probably always will do, but he also knows Dutch. He sees behind the scenes of Dutch’s people-collecting, Hosea knows how he operates and how he will only take in the most vulnerable people he can find, feed his ego as each new gang member owes him for their life. He’s probably established more debts than Strauss at this point.  
A few different scenarios fly through Hosea’s head. He tries to decide what the outcomes of this might be. There’re too many pathways that this could take, and none of them all too reassuring so instead he decides to focus on his initial plan of helping you find your way again. He decides he’ll try to keep you as separate from the gang as he can, not that he doesn’t trust his little band of outlaws and their travelling companions, its just sometimes he has his doubts.  
“Sure, Dutch. No promises” Hosea says as Dutch snubs his cigarette.  
“I’ll see you when we head out” Dutch visibly shrugs off the conversation and leaves Hosea alone with Arthur under the tree.  
Arthur isn’t looking at Hosea, rather at a little brown bird that’s landed on a rock not too far away. Hosea see’s Arthur’s furrowed brows and watches the scrunch of his nose.  
“What’s going on in that head of yours boy? I see you thinking”  
Arthur makes a noise and pulls his cigarette from his mouth.  
“You know me Hosea, I ain’t never been one for thinkin’”  
“Oh sure,” Hosea quips sarcastically “You think about nothing but your next meal”  
“Exactly” Arthur says, its empty and defensive humour. Hosea pauses before he speaks again, observing the dust that coats the tips of his boots first.  
“What do you think about bringing in this girl?” he finally says.  
Arthur tosses his cigarette away at that, stamping it out and turning to walk past Hosea.  
“If you and Dutch think it’s alright, then I don’t care one bit what happens”  
Hosea decides to leave it at that.

The letter arrives on Wednesday.  
You don’t even wait to get home before you open the letter. You tuck yourself into the corner of the Blackwater post office and tear into it, reading the cursive font faster that you can properly process the information. The message is brief, tells you that him and his “travelling workers” are moving towards Blackwater to search for work and him and his “colleague” would be at the Blackwater saloon come noon on Thursday, and that you should be ready to join them.  
An instruction to pack lightly make you snort. That shouldn’t be difficult, seeing as you had hardly any valuables to bring with you.  
Once home, you went straight to your bedroom. You crouched beside your bed, pulling out from underneath a trunk used for travelling. Its coated in a thin layer of dust, you haven’t used it since you returned from San Denis, but you hope that you might be getting a lot more use for it in the future.  
You toss the trunk onto the bed, opening it and turning to your dresser. You pull from it a few skirts, blouses, a chemise, corset, and a few sets of bloomer and stockings. You pack them as neatly as you can, folding them tightly so that you can fit more into the averagely sized trunk. After a moment of deliberation, you take a shawl and use it to wrap your hairbrush, pocket mirror, and a pair of petty earrings. If you decide against them, you know you can always sell them in the future. You put the wrapped items into the trunk alongside a little fan and a tin of face powder.  
You go to the kitchen, pull a revolver from the knife drawer and gather what little ammo you have left in the house. With the gun, ammo, a photograph of your father and, an old quilted blanket you finish packing, close the trunk and leave it by your bedroom door.  
After dinner that night, you gather all the cutlery in the house, wrapping it in a cotton sheet and leave it on the kitchen table. Tomorrow you’ll take it to the general store and see if you can get any money for them. They’re not flashy, but they might get you something.  
Finally, you feel satisfied that you’ve sorted yourself enough to leave home tomorrow. With the sun beginning to set, you turn to your father’s old armchair and move to sit down in it but stop just before you do. Instead you reach for the back of the chair, you manoeuvre it so that it sits where it used to before you had to move it. When you stand back to look at it, facing towards the fireplace, you feel the beginnings of tears threaten to spill. With the high back of the chair, it’s as though you could walk around it and your father would still be sat there, a book resting on his lap as he relaxes by the fire after a hard day at work. But there’s no fire lit, all the books in the house you have sold, and your father is dead in the ground.  
Rubbing at your eyes you let out the shaky breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. You gingerly sit down on the chair, curling your legs up so that your sat completely on the chair. Your fists ball into the fabric of your skirt, and you allow yourself to have this moment of nostalgia before you go to bed. Before you leave your home again for good.

When you wake, it’s morning. The cool morning light filters in through the curtains as your eyes groggily open. You rub at your face, and suddenly register what’s happening today.  
“Shit!” You curse, jumping out of the chair and rushing to your room.  
Here, you wash your face hurriedly, and attempt to calm your wild hair as best as possible. You change your clothes, pulling on a light blouse and dark blue skirt and putting what you changed out of into your travelling trunk. You inspect yourself in the mirror, and once you deem yourself presentable you head to the kitchen with your trunk, collect your overcoat and the wrapped cutlery.  
You stop for a minute, take in the house as it is. You try not to look towards the red chair by the fireplace, but you do anyway. It hurts a little, but you pull your eyes away from it, step out onto the porch, lock the door, and leave.

The cutlery had got you a handful of dollars. Not much, but with what little you already had, it was enough money to act as an escape route if you needed one. Holding your trunk tightly in your hand you walk through Blackwater, its nearly midday and you know Hosea will be here soon.  
As you walk towards the saloon you notice a couple, young and well to do in lively conversation. They’re dressed in lovely expensive clothes and walk arm in arm. The man’s suit is spotless and perfectly fitted, and beneath her decorated hat, the young woman’s cheeks shine with a healthy pink glow. They look like prints that have strolled straight out of a magazine.  
Whilst observing the couple you tripped, stumbling a little over a cobblestone and dropping your suitcase. Quickly you crouch down to collect it, stuffing the blouse that threatens to escape back into the trunk and fumbling with the claps. Another pair of hands appear and reach for your trunk, and you instinctively move to pull your belongings closer to you out of fear you might get stolen from, but you stop when you notice whose hands it is.  
It’s the gentleman from the couple. He’s smiling cheerfully as he carefully helps you close the suitcase.  
“Here, let me help you” His voice is bright as a whistle and you smile sheepishly back at him.  
“Thank you. I was in a world of my own there” You laugh breathily as he stands the suitcase up and offers you his white gloved hand.  
“Well it’s no harm to help a stranger in need” he replies as you stand.  
His wife is close by now, her face just as bright and full as her young husband. Her blonde hair is swept away from her face elegantly and her eyes glitter with concern.  
“Are you alright?” She says in a bright airy voice.  
You find yourself blushing at her concern.  
“I’m just fine, thank you” you smile.  
“Oh here, take this” The woman says and fishes into her coat pocket.  
You watch as she retrieves a little silk handkerchief and offers it out to you. Gingerly you take it from her little lace gloved hand and use it to dust your hands off.  
“You must keep it,” she says “It matches your skirt”  
It does, there’s a set of blue lavender embroided into the corners of the handkerchief.  
“That it does” Her husband agrees.  
“Thank you very much, both of you” You say with a smile, tucking the handkerchief into your own pocket.  
“You’re very welcome. Take care now Ma’am” says the gentleman with a smile. He takes his wife’s arm, and the two of them walk off.  
Continuing on, you walk towards the saloon, choosing to sit on a bench near the front and bask in the warmth of the crisp sunlight. You place the trunk beneath your seat and wait.

 

“Now where did you find this little treasure then?” A voice from across the street breaks you from your relaxed spell. Looking up from where you’ve been waiting you take in the man walking towards you.  
He’s dressed unusually. Not unattractively, but it still seems like a costume for a pantomime villain or a circus ringleader. His pinstriped suit is adorned with gold details, buttons and chains that catch the sunlight and wink at your eyes as he moves. Rings adorn his fingers in abundance making him seem like some sort of emperor, and you can’t help but think this might be the sort of man you’d steal from, had it not been for the elaborate duelling pistols that he has draped across his hips.  
When you see Hosea beside him you stand, a grin automatically leaps across your face despite the somewhat uncomfortable introduction his friend had made.  
“Well San Denis I believe, but before that out here in West Elizabeth” Hosea says as he takes you in.  
Hosea extends an arm and pulls you towards him and you accept the embrace happily. It’s been too long since you’ve seen him in person. He’s aged so much, his stature a little less imposing than it used to be, but he carries his age in a way that very few can. It’s sort of like his character was supposed to be in this body and was simply waiting until it came to fruition.  
“Thank you for this,” you said softly and earnestly, so that only Hosea can really hear. You’re still slightly wary of the man that’s come with him, not ready to trust him quite yet.  
“It’s quite alright. Get your bag, let’s go inside” He says, turning you around “What do you think Dutch? Do we have time for a drink?”  
The name hits you the second that Hosea says it. You’re reminded of stories that Hosea would tell you when you were younger of his partner in crime. A valiant outlaw king who lead his gang with a firm but fair hand and committed heists of such grandeur it made most other gunslingers look like children.  
You’re suddenly aware of the fact your awe must have shown on your face, as Dutch laughs a little and puffs his chest up. You can practically see his ego glowing happily, the thought that he probably hasn’t been recognised for a while and is living for your childlike wonder passes through your mind.  
“I should hope so” He says in his distinct voice, and gestures with his arm towards the door of the saloon.  
Taking your trunk, you let the two men walk you into the saloon and take a seat by the window overlooking the street outside.  
“I will say it was quite a surprise when Hosea wanted to bring you into our camp” Dutch says as he takes a seat opposite you, and you feel suddenly as though you’re about to be interrogated. Hosea gives you a look as if to say he can’t help you, and you settle back into your seat.  
Dutch calls for a set of whiskey’s that you accept gratefully, and he begins to press at you, though he does a masterful attempt at disguising his questions. You entertain him, giving him the answers you know he needs to hear, feed that broken ego by telling him how much you’ve heard of him, and how you truly have no other option but to ask for his help. You take care to place emphasis on how you’re entirely at his mercy in this situation. Subtly Hosea nods and smiles as he listens to you. He’s not looking at anyone in the conversation, but rather the fly that’s investigating the surface around his whisky glass. There’s something akin to pride that settles on his hardened features as you talk, and you’re acutely aware of the way this faded hero of the outlaw world dressed in kings’ clothes laps up your pity story with vigour as you lay it out in front of him.  
“Well I’ll say it certainly seems like you’re in quite the situation” Dutch says as he runs a finger over the rim of his nearly empty whisky glass before flicking it and letting the dainty noise ring out. Hosea looks at Dutch then with expectancy.  
“Yes, it’s become rather difficult”  
Hosea raises an eyebrow at your hidden sarcasm, but Dutch doesn’t seem to pick up on it. This is a language that you and Hosea have studied thoroughly seems to travel over Dutch’s head. You now know why Hosea stays so close to him, you can tell this man would fall for any flattery trick you threw his way. He would be most easily manipulated if you needed to, he’s quite vulnerable to a con with that rusted crown falling over his eyes.  
“You must understand that everyone in my gang is very dear to me, and the gang is very dear to them. They all pull their weight for the greater good of the family,” you can feel an offer hiding behind his teeth, just waiting for the right time to come out “would you do that? ‘Sing for your supper’ so to speak”  
“Of course,” you offer without hesitation  
He nods, leaning back in the chair slightly and looks at Hosea for a moment before turning back to you. He rests his hands upon the table, and now you can see the faint scars that hide beneath his golden rings.  
“I want you to prove that to me,” He says, he looks like he’s presented you with a meal after you’ve been starving for months, benevolent and gracious.  
“How?” you ask after a moment of seeking Hosea’s eyes.  
“I want you to rob someone. Should be simple enough” Dutch looks past Hosea and out onto the street “Like him. I want you to steal something from him”  
Your response gets trapped in your throat when you follow Dutch’s subtly pointed finger. There’s no question as to who he’s asking you to rob as the only people on view are the couple from earlier. Some voice in you tells you not to do anything, to reject the offer and suggest perhaps one of the men within the saloon, but there’s an air of finality it the way that Dutch had said it that makes you think it’ll do you no favours to try and change his choice. Yet despite this their little show of kindness had made you against the idea of stealing from them.  
“Can you do that for me, dear?” His voice is low and filled with dangerous promises that make your fingers twitch with barely restrained excitement.  
“This isn’t how I usually do this” you say, trying to hide your reluctance.  
“I know. Think of it as a challenge my dear” He leans closer to you. You feel something move with him, it’s like the fantastical promise of a better life floats about him like a cloud. He smiles at your obvious desperation.  
“Like a game”

**Author's Note:**

> Whew so I got the urge to finally write this, and I'm extremely happy with the direction it's going to go!  
> If there's anything you'd really want to see in the story comment it, i'd be really happy to know what sorts of things you guys like.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr @lavenderstages if you want to have a chat with me or request something!


End file.
